by Bec McMaster
Nothing would be moving out there tonight. And as much as he wanted to get his hands on the Chalice as soon as possible, the second Verity had started shivering, he'd had to concede defeat.
She'd headed for her private bathing chambers the moment they entered his house, and Bishop had gone to find her some bath towels, trailing water through the house. He'd even warmed them for her, which made him feel a little uncertain.
Curse you. Taking the stairs two at a time, he strode along the hallway with them. You know you can't have her.
Temptation, however, knew no boundaries. At least not when it came to her.
Juggling the towels in his arms, he'd paused to rap on the half-cracked door, when water shifted, as if someone stirred their hand through it. Through the inch-wide slit in the door, he caught a hint of movement. "Verity?"
"Yes?"
Bishop shoved the door open with his shoulder and strode inside. "I brought you some towe—"
He froze.
Verity glanced up from the bath, the tips of her knees peeping through a froth of bubbles and her arms resting along the edges of the porcelain tub. Tendrils of wet hair curled over her bare shoulders, though the rest of it was knotted on top of her head to keep it dry. The upper slopes of her breasts gleamed wetly as her breath caught.
"You..." are naked, supplied the very helpful part of his brain that could still function. He slammed his eyes shut, but the image of her was painted on the insides of his eyeballs. "Why the hell didn't you warn me?"
"I forget how prudish you are." Humor warmed her voice and water stirred as she splashed. "I'm all covered up, Bishop. All of these bubbles...." The way her voice dropped, all smoky and hot, shivered through him. "You won't see a thing, I promise."
Too late for that. "This is indecent."
Turning around, he blindly reached for the vanity, groping nothing but air.
Water swirled, as though she stirred her legs through it. "You barely batted an eyelid when you were in the bath," she pointed out.
"That was different." His hand found the counter and he set the towels down. "I was distracted with other problems at the time. I'll... get supper warmed."
"You could stay. Maybe wash my back?"
"That would be highly inappropriate." He headed for the door, but caught a glimpse of her in the mirror.
Verity laughed as their eyes met, and reached for the soap, her breasts—
Bishop slammed out of the room, pressing his back to the wall and shoving his closed fists against his eyes. Hell. He couldn't unsee it, however. Verity. Naked. All smooth, gleaming skin covered in suds, with her damp hair gathered up in a knot on top of her head, tendrils falling around her bare shoulders.
She was enough to drive any man to distraction.
Damn her.
His cock surged against the tented pants of his trousers, and he looked down in disgust, as if it had betrayed him.
Might as well fix that map table after supper. Maybe play a round of billiards with himself. There would be no sleep for him, after all.
Not tonight.
* * *
Verity found him in the billiards room, setting up impossible shots as he prowled around the table. It wasn't difficult to track him; the cracking ricochet of balls had lured her all the way from her bedroom.
What she had expected, however, was to catch him unawares, as she'd been tiptoeing so carefully, trying to avoid the squeaky timbers she'd begun to identify in the house.
"Are you going to hover out there all night?" Bishop called, bending over the table and hammering a red ball into the far pocket. "Or is there something in particular that you want?"
Caught. Verity slipped into the room, smiling faintly. His lack of composure in her bathing chamber earlier had surprised her. You'd have thought she'd offered to lie with him right then and there. How could a man so dangerous seem so flustered at times?
"How do you always know where I am in the house?" She sniffed her sleeve. "I'm not wearing any perfume, and I'm as silent as a mouse when I want to be."
"You've walked through four of my wards to get here," he replied, darting a glance at her, freezing, and then turning back to the table in a very deliberate action.
Apparently, Bishop approved of the pretty green gown that Marie had sent around for her. Hiding a smile, Verity circled the table, rolling the green ball that he was intent on setting up beneath her palm.
Bent over the table, Bishop narrowed an intense glare upon her. "Do you mind?"
Holding her hands in the air, Verity gave him her most innocent look. "Not at all."
A crack sounded, and the white ball smashed the green into the side pocket. The move was ruthlessly efficient, Bishop standing and prowling around the corner of the table with the cue in his hands like a weapon. He'd never looked more like an assassin.
Intense.
"Something bothering you, Bishop?"
"Not at all," he growled, glaring at the balls on the table as though they were at fault.
"It wouldn't have anything to do with you walking in on me, would it?"
Those knuckles whitened around the cue. "Miss Hawkins—"
"Verity."
He swore under his breath, losing all sense of that cold distance he'd been striving to maintain. "That won't happen again. I apologize, I—"
"Pity," she murmured under her breath.
Their eyes met.
"It cannot happen again," he said firmly.
She didn't quite know what to make of that statement. Who was he trying to convince? For his eyes very clearly told a different tale as he watched her glide around the table.
This dangerous man with his polite manners and aloof behavior fascinated her. He looked at her sometimes as though he were undressing her with his eyes, but anytime they strayed into what could be construed as dangerous territory, he backed away. She'd very clearly hinted she would not be averse to extending their friendship, an offer most men she knew would not hesitate to accept, but Bishop looked as though he were fighting a battle with himself in regards to her.
What did any of it mean? Did he want her? Or not?
And what did she want?
Time to find out. Verity changed tactics. "May I play?"
"I was almost finished." He bent, his back a smooth line, the cue a dangerous weapon as he sighted along it.
"Liar." She snorted, causing his ball to misfire dangerously. "You're going to be stalking the house all night. It's not as though you're going to sleep."
Bishop swore under his breath as the white ricocheted around the table. "Don't you have anything better to do?"
"Like what?" She offered him a faint smile. "All of my friends threw me out of the Hex, an anonymous group of masked men are trying to kill me, and someone's trying to bring the dead to life. It's not as though I can leave the house without you, and your library is boring enough to put anyone to sleep. Don't you have any scandalous novels at all?"
"So you're lonely?" He chalked the cue.
"I do actually enjoy your company," she pointed out.
Which made him glance toward her, nostrils flaring. Ever since they'd woken yesterday morning on the sofa in his laboratory, her head resting on his lap, he'd been avoiding her.
"Though I'm not certain whether you enjoy mine or not." This was said a little quieter. All teasing aside, she wasn't quite certain where she stood with him. Sometimes she thought he might like to kiss her. At others, he couldn't get away from her quickly enough.
"Verity." His voice came softly. "I don't dislike your company. I-I—" Hesitation caught his tongue.
And she waited. God help her, but her treacherous heart beat a little harder in anticipation, her tongue locking up in her mouth.
For an answer that was not to come. Wariness filled his dark eyes and they stared at each other, as if the answer were too complex to give voice to.
"Well," she said, breathing out a false little laugh. "I guess that answers that."
If he thought she wa
s going to stay there, then he was quite mistaken. Swallowing her disappointment, Verity gathered her skirts and turned to flee, but he caught her by the door, one hard hand locking around her wrist. "I enjoy your company," he murmured, the caress of his breath stirring the curls at her nape. "Sometimes I wish I didn't."
Verity turned to face him again, their bodies pressed closely together, with but an inch separating them... even if it felt like miles.
"Stay," he said roughly, then cleared his throat, and repeated, "Stay, and play with me."
Verity took the stick. She didn't have any other option as it was thrust toward her, but she couldn't quite decipher what she saw on his face. He didn't seem happy, and yet he didn't seem to want her to go.
"Do you know how to play?" he asked, and a faint red tint stained his cheeks as he looked down at the cue.
"It's not as though Murphy kept a billiards room," she pointed out, but that wasn't a no. A plan had formed; a means of finding out whether he wanted to kiss her or whether he didn't.
"Do you want me to teach you?"
Verity smiled shyly. "That would be lovely."
"Have a try," he said, offering her the cue.
Verity took it, then leaned over the table, eyeing the green baize and the scattering of balls. It felt nice to be doing something other than talking of the thrice-cursed Chalice for once, though she knew he was restless.
"Is this right?" she asked, and tried to nestle the cue in her hands.
Bishop stared at her, trying to gauge her sincerity, but he grudgingly stepped up behind her, resettling the cue in her hands as his body surrounded hers. His warmth was tangible, his thighs brushing against her bottom. "You hold it like this."
Verity bit her lip, glancing over her shoulder at him. His dark, slightly-too-long hair tumbled forward, obscuring part of his face as he eyed the table.
"Aim for the green ball," he said.
It nestled close enough to the far pocket to make it a moderately easy shot.
"If I sink this ball"—she peered down the line of the cue—"what will you give me?"
"Give you?"
"Well, there has to be some sort of challenge to make it interesting."
"Do you gamble frequently?"
"Sometimes. I like the thrill of it." She smiled. "Don't ever sit down to cards with me, however, or you'll end up handing over the deed to everything you own."
Bishop leaned against the table, watching her set herself up. "One could say you're already halfway there," he murmured, just loudly enough for her to hear it.
Her heart leapt. Verity hit the white ball, and it careened wildly across the table, a miscue. "Damn it." She stared at him. "You did that on purpose."
"Did what?" This was an entirely different side to him tonight. Almost playful. She wasn't certain whether he was teasing her or not.
Bishop folded his arms across his chest, frowning at the table. "I suspected you were gaming me, and were about to sink that."
"Who? Me?" She sauntered around the table, determination lighting through her. If he wanted to play games, then she was quite happy to take him up on that. And she wasn't going to lose.
He snorted. "Yes, you. Little Miss Innocent over there."
"Play a game with me?" Chalking the tip of the cue, she practically dared him with her eyes to say yes.
Bishop rubbed at his face, then sighed. "It's not as though I'm going to get any sleep tonight anyway, is it?"
"If I win, will you tell me why?"
"If you win, I'll tell you anything you want."
That intrigued her. There were so many mysteries about him that she wanted to solve. "Done."
Bishop set up the table, then glanced at her. "Do you wish to break?"
"No. You do it. You're so much stronger than I."
He sent the balls flying around the table, then shot her an are-you-serious look. The sound of clacking balls broke the gentle patter of rain that wet the windows. Verity smiled at him obliquely and swept around the table toward him, adding an extra swish to her stride.
She took a step closer, but he withdrew almost fractionally. "The stick?" she murmured, reaching toward it.
Bishop let it go, but he watched her.
Let him watch. She smiled again, then considered the spread with a ruthless eye. Her previous miscue had worked in her favor. Bishop might be worldly, but he knew nothing of being gulled if he thought one broke the trick as early as that.
Verity eyed the nearest green ball. Time to play dirty.
She punched it into the pocket, then turned and considered her next move. Bishop folded his arms across his chest. "Nice shot."
"Thank you."
This time she potted the orange.
His eyes narrowed.
Verity nibbled on her lip, and deliberately missed the next shot. She handed over the cue as he stalked past her.
Circling the table, she rested on the far edge, leaning forward as if to survey what he was doing. Bishop looked down the length of the cue, then noticed her. His gaze dipped toward her bodice and he swallowed.
"Verity, sometimes I wonder if you are pure evil."
That sent her into a gale of laughter.
"You're deliberately trying to torture me," he muttered, and sank the blue.
Toying with a strand of hair, she nibbled at it. "I could only torture you if you actually wanted me."
"Of course I want you," he muttered, a soft sigh escaping him. "You're a beautiful young woman. But too young."
"I'm nineteen," she replied, rolling her eyes. She suspected he'd have a long list of excuses to throw at her, and this was the first. "I'm hardly a child." Her voice softened a fraction, thinking back through the years. "I don't think I've been a child for a very long time."
Sympathy gleamed in his eyes. "You missed out on a lot."
She shrugged.
As he set up his next shot, he asked, "What happened to your mother? I know your father left, but... you don't speak of her."
Well now. Verity glanced down at her folded hands. She never spoke of her mother, not even to Mercy. The pain in her chest was as sharp as the day she'd found her mother's pale, still body. "My mother was the most beautiful woman," she said quietly. "She used to work as a maid in a fancy house, until the owner's son tried to take advantage of her. She had to leave, but the owner refused to give her a reference. Said she was telling lies about her son. So mother married my father, and they moved into St. Giles. Not near the slum then, but on the edge of it. And she had work in a match factory until she started getting sick from the phosphorus. It scared her, for I was a little girl then and some of her friends had died, or suffered phossy-jaw. So she gave it up.
"And when my father walked out on us, well, she needed the money, didn't she? Hex Perkins, the leader of the Black Cats, saw her one day and decided he wanted her. That's how we moved into the Dials. But he grew tired of her after a while and she was forced to do other work to survive. I remember long hours of mending, of laundry, of cleaning in other people's houses. She... took on men sometimes, when the money was tight. And one of them beat her very badly one night. She didn't recover well. The Healers said he'd made her bleed inside, but... there was no money to pay a hearth witch to heal her." Verity let out a long breath, seeing the bloodied linens all over again. "She died very quickly. I wasn't expecting it. When I came home with her mending, there she was... she... she was...."
A hand brushed her chin, and Verity realized she could barely see through her watery eyes. She blinked and a single tear ran down her cheek, another clinging to her lashes. "I'm sorry." She pushed past him, brushing at her cheeks and dashing her tears away. "I don't cry. I never cry. I don't know what's—"
Strong arms drew her against a warm chest. Verity hiccupped, and a fresh wave of tears overwhelmed her. Feeling mortified, she tried to stop herself but a sob erupted, and then she was undone.
"It's all right to cry," Bishop murmured, the rumble of his voice vibrating through his chest. He cupped t
he back of her head, pressing her sobbing face into his shoulder. "You loved your mother. You miss her." His voice roughened. "I understand that."
The storm of weeping left her hot-faced and swollen. But Verity had to admit it was nice to be held, nice to be in his arms. She'd wanted to have sex with him, but this... this affection was something she hadn't known she hungered for. It was dangerous in a way that bedding him wouldn't have been.
And she couldn't stop herself from wanting more.
Bishop rocked her slowly, rubbing her back as she collected herself. Verity closed her eyes.
When she and Mercy had been younger, they'd played a game once, lying in their beds and daydreaming about a future that would never exist for them. A game of what-if that was as inconsequential as the spider silk lacing the beams above them:
"What would you do if there was no debt over your head?" she'd asked Mercy.
"Steal a ship," Mercy had replied promptly. "Become a pirate."
Verity burst into laughter. "Should I call you Anne Bonny?"
And Mercy had thrown a pillow at her.
After the fight died down, which Verity had won using her translocation skills to pin her sister-of-the-heart to her mattress, Mercy had whispered. "What would you do?"
Verity had barely dared to put it into words, for if you said your wish out loud it would never come true. "I would steal a man's heart," she'd whispered. "Have my own children, my own family." One that couldn't be taken away from her. "A home of my own, where I didn't have to steal or beg just to keep my head above water."
But what was the point in wishing, for a pair of girls from Seven Dials who knew better than to believe?
Here, now, she felt that same urge expand her chest. Her arms slipped around his waist, and Verity looked up, her cheeks tight and dry. Dark lashes shuttered his eyes as he glanced down. He must have seen the need in her eyes, for he slowly, slowly lowered his face to hers. Verity's heart erupted in a series of flutters, like someone had trapped a butterfly inside her rib cage.
Lips brushed against her own. Then back again. A light caress that spoke of so much more than desire.
